Page 40

“Well?” Thomas was against the opposite side of the desk. “How was the dinner?”

“Good.” Rafe shuffled through a stack of papers. He hadn’t a clue what he was looking for. “Very enjoyable.”

A snort. “I rather doubt old Bancroft can put together anything truly estimable, nor his old lady. Absurd, to be made a baronet over some foolish doctoring.”

I somehow doubt fools become physicians to the monarch. Rafe’s restless fingers settled on a sales report from the previous month. He let his gaze rake over the page, but Thomas didn’t seem to notice.

“Were the Atkinsons there?”

“Ah, I believe so.”

“What drink did they serve before dinner?”

“Champagne.”

Thomas scoffed. “Tasteless.” A few seconds passed. “And Lord Langford? Was he in attendance?”

“I …” Rafe’s memories from last night were aplenty, but not at all helpful on this subject. “I really couldn’t say.”

“How does one not notice such things?” Thomas grumbled a pitch higher.

Rafe realized his eyes had locked on the line Moorfield carpet for some indeterminable length of time, and he set them to roving again.

“Had you any luck with the chit?”

Rafe’s thumb pierced a crescent-shaped wrinkle on the paper’s edge. “Do what?”

“Penney!”

Rafe’s head snapped up in answer to his father’s yell. Thomas threw his arms in the air (as high as his poorly tailored coat would allow), and slapped the top of the desk.

“Did you have any success with Miss Perfect Penney, or have you forgotten who that is?” Thomas seethed the words, tilting his head left and right in a wild motion, his mouth casting spittle.

“I certainly haven’t forgotten her,” Rafe said with well-practiced levelness, “only she wasn’t present.”

“Then call on her.” Thomas put one great pale finger to the desktop. “I taught you finer manners than this.”

Rafe had forgotten he was supposed to call. The mention of an estate agent had been a victory to him, a marker of success not unlike a tutor’s praise scrawled into the margin of a workbook. If he thought to run up with Miss Penney at something like a dinner or ball, well, excellent, because that was his only purpose in attending. But to seek her out? He didn’t particularly like the idea. He didn’t particularly like her.

“Right,” he said, bunching his mouth into a smile. “I’ll see to it.” But sure as hell not today.

Thomas shook his head, but he backed away from the desk. “Pray don’t speak of it in such businesslike terms when you go to her. Ladies expect endless praise. Even more is required when you’re reaching above your touch.” He paused by the door and raised his brows. “Understand?”

The words tasted like bitter punch on Rafe’s tongue, but the man would never leave without hearing the almighty oath of allegiance: “Yes, sir.”

Rafe didn’t find himself back at his desk until noon. Letters were posted, the crates in the storeroom unloaded, the departments paced and reorganized. He had expected Alfie to come before now.

A yawn left Rafe’s vision bleary. He tossed aside the ledger book he’d been studying and put his head in his hands. Thomas’s needs could wait for once. A blank sheet of scribbling paper stared up at him. He lifted his pen to the page; stopped.

He hadn’t sketched anything seriously since boyhood. Mother had always encouraged him, wrapped him in smiling hugs each time he presented her with a disproportionate horse or a rough portrait in charcoal. She’d had hopes of his one day receiving proper instruction from a painter. She’d bought him a drawing box full of pencils. On her more conversational days, she still asked him if he’d been creating any art.

Her belief in his creative talent doubtless had more to do with maternal tenderness than any measurable skill, for Thomas had reminded him—frequently, and in no uncertain terms—that even his best efforts were pitiful.

A boy shouldn’t be sketching.

If you keep wasting your days on silly drawings, Rafe, you’ll never be worth a damn thing.

Train under an artist? That’s not what you want—unless you should like to starve.